Πέμπτη, 28 Ιουνίου 2018

Issue 225, Summer 2018

In Copenhagen, 1987.
László Krasznahorkai was born in 1954 in Gyula, a provincial town in Hungary, in the Soviet era. He published his first novel, Satantango, in 1985, then The Melancholy of Resistance (1989), War and War (1999), and Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming (2016).
These novels, with their giant accretions of language, global
­erudition (he’s as familiar with the classics of Buddhist philosophy as
he is with the European intellectual tradition), obsessive characters,
and rain-sodden landscapes, might give an impression of hardened
late-modernist hauteur, but they are also pointillist, elegant, and
delicately funny. His gravity has panache—a collision of tones visible
in other works he has produced alongside the novels, which ­include
short fictions such as Animalinside (2010) and geographically vaster texts like Destruction and Sorrow Beneath the Heavens (2004) and Seiobo There Below (2008).
Although Krasznahorkai still has a house in Hungary, he mainly lives
in Berlin. The first time I tried to reach Berlin from London to begin
this interview, in the winter of 2016, my plane was canceled due to fog.
A few hours later, as my new flight was on the tarmac, we were told
that technical difficulties would further delay our departure. Having at
last arrived in Berlin and found a taxi—driving at unnervingly high
speed because, the driver told me, he desperately needed to find a
bathroom—I found Krasznahorkai in front of the U-Bahn entrance at
Hermannplatz, twelve hours after I had left London. I might as well have
met him in Beijing. This elongated contemporary travel farce, I
thought, seemed incongruously comical. But then I reconsidered:
Krasznahorkai’s art has always been hospitable to the absurd, to the
ways the world will personify itself and become an implacable opponent.
Krasznahorkai speaks English with a seductive Mitteleuropean
­inflection and the occasional American accent, the result of his time
in the nineties living in Allen Ginsberg’s New York apartment.
Krasznahorkai is a large, gentle man, often laughing or smiling and full
of creaturely care. He loaned me a sweater when I looked cold, bought
me Durs Grünbein’s poetry collection Una Storia Vera as a
present, and offered recommendations of György Kurtág recordings. With
his long hair and mournful eyes, he looks like a ­benign saint. He is
also a man of absolute privacy; he never, therefore, wanted to meet in
his apartment. Instead, we conducted long sessions in its general
environs, in various cafés and restaurants around Kreuzberg.

—Adam Thirlwell

INTERVIEWER

Let’s talk about your beginning as a writer.

KRASZNAHORKAI

I thought that real life, true life was elsewhere. Along with The Castle by Franz Kafka, my bible for a while was Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano.
This was the late sixties, early seventies. I didn’t want to accept the
role of a writer. I wanted to write just one book—and after that, I
wanted to do different things, especially with music. I wanted to live
with the poorest people—I thought that was real life. I lived in very
poor villages. I always had very bad jobs. I changed location very
often, every three or four months, in an escape from mandatory military
service.
And then, as soon as I started to publish some small things, I received an invitation from the police. I was maybe a little bit too
impertinent, because after every question I said, “Please believe me, I
don’t deal with politics.” “But we know some things about you.” “No, I
don’t write about contemporary politics.” “We don’t believe you.” After a
while, I became a little angry and said, “Could you really imagine that
I’d write anything about people like you?” And that enraged them, of
course, and one of the police officers, or someone from the secret
police, wanted to confiscate my passport. In the Communist system in the
Soviet era, we had two different passports, blue and red, and I only
had the red one. The red wasn’t so interesting because with it you could
only go to socialist countries, whereas the blue one meant freedom. So I
said, You really want the red one? But they still took it away, and I
didn’t have any passport until 1987.
That was the first story of my writing career—and could easily have
been the last. Recently, in the documents of the secret police, I found
notes where they discuss potential informers and spies. They had some
chance with my brother, they wrote, but with László
Krasznahorkai, it would be absolutely impossible because he was so
anticommunist. This looks funny now, but at the time it wasn’t so funny.
But I never made any political demonstrations. I just lived in small
villages and towns and wrote my first novel.

INTERVIEWER

How did you publish it?

KRASZNAHORKAI

This was 1985. Nobody—myself included—could understand how it was possible to publish Satantango
because it’s anything but an unproblematic novel for the Communist
system. At that time, the director of one of the publishing houses for
contemporary literature was a former secret-police chief, and maybe he
wanted to prove that he still had power—power enough to show that he had
the courage to publish this novel. I guess that was the only reason the
book was published.

INTERVIEWER

What kind of jobs were you doing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I was a miner for a while. That was almost comical—the real miners
had to cover for me. Then I became a director of various culture houses
in villages far from Budapest. Every village had a culture house where
people could read the classics. This library was all they had in their
everyday lives. And on Fridays or Saturdays, the director of the culture
house organized a music party, or something like it, which was very
good for young people. I was the director for six very small villages,
which meant I always moved between them. It was a great job. I loved it
because I was very far from my bourgeois family.
What else? I was night watchman for three hundred cows. That was my
favorite—a byre in no man’s land. There was no village, no city, no town
nearby. I was a watchman for a few months, maybe. A poor life with Under the Volcano in one pocket and Dostoyevsky in the other.
And of course, in these Wanderjahre, I began to drink. There was a
tradition in Hungarian literature that true geniuses were total drunks.
And I was a crazed drunk, too. But then came a moment when I was sitting
with a group of Hungarian writers who were sadly agreeing that this was
inevitable, that any Hungarian genius had to be a crazed drunk. I
refused to accept this and made a bet—for twelve bottles of
champagne—that I would never drink again.

INTERVIEWER

And you haven’t?

KRASZNAHORKAI

And I haven’t. But still, at that time, among contemporary prose
writers, there was one writer and drinker in particular—Péter Hajnóczy.
He was a living legend and a total and profound alcoholic, like Malcolm
Lowry. His death was the biggest event in Hungarian literature. He was
very young, maybe forty. And that was the life I lived. I wasn’t worried
about anything—it was a very adventurous life, always in transit
between two cities, in train stations and bars at night, observing
people, having small conversations with them. Slowly, I started to write
the book in my head.
It was good to be working like that because I had a strong feeling
that literature was a spiritual field—that elsewhere, in the same era,
Hajnóczy, János Pilinszky, Sándor Weöres, and many other wonderful poets
lived and wrote. Prose literature was less powerful. We loved poetry
much more because it was more interesting, more secret. Prose was a
little too close to reality. The idea of a genius in prose was someone
who stayed very close to real life. That’s why, traditionally, Hungarian
prose writers, like Zsigmond Móricz, composed in short sentences. But
not Krúdy, my only beloved writer from the ­history of Hungarian prose
literature. Gyula Krúdy. A wonderful writer. Surely ­untranslatable. In
Hungary, he was a Don Giovanni—two meters high, a huge man, a phenomenal
man. He was so seductive that no one could resist.

INTERVIEWER

And his sentences?

KRASZNAHORKAI

He used sentences differently from any other prose writer. He always
sounded like a slightly drunk man who is very melancholy, who has no
illusions about life, who is very strong but whose strength is entirely
unnecessary. But Krúdy wasn’t a literary ideal for me. Krúdy was a person
for me, a legend who gave me some power when I decided I would write
something. János Pilinszky was my other legend. In a literary sense,
Pilinszky was much more important for me because of his language, his
way of talking. I’ll try to imitate.
Dear Adam—we shouldn’t—wait—for an apocalypse, we are living—now—in
an apocalypse.—My dear—Adam—please don’t go anywhere—anywhere . . .
Very high-pitched, slow, with all these pauses between words. And the
last letters of every word were always expressed very clearly. Like a
priest in a catacomb—without hope but with huge hope at the same time.
But he was different from Gyula Krúdy. Pilinszky was like a lamb. Not a
human being—a lamb.

INTERVIEWER

Was there much available in translation?

KRASZNAHORKAI

There was a time, in the seventies, when we got a lot of Western
literature. William Faulkner, Franz Kafka, Rilke, Arthur Miller, Joseph
Heller, Marcel Proust, Samuel Beckett—almost every week there was a new
masterwork. Because they couldn’t publish their own work under the
Communist regime, the greatest writers and poets became translators.
That’s why we had wonderful translations of Shakespeare, Dante, Homer,
and of every great American writer, from Faulkner onward. The first
translation of Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow was really marvelous.

INTERVIEWER

And Dostoyevsky?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes. Dostoyevsky played a very important role for me—because of his
­heroes, not because of his style or his stories. Do you remember the
narrator of “White Nights”? The main character is a little bit like
Myshkin in The Idiot, a pre-Myshkin figure. I was a fanatical
fan of this narrator and later of Myshkin—of their defenselessness. A
defenseless, angelic figure. In every novel I’ve written you can find
such a figure—like Estike in Satantango or Valuska in Melancholy,
who are wounded by the world. They don’t deserve these wounds, and I
love them because they believe in a universe where everything is
wonderful, including human existence, and I honor very much the fact
that they are believers. But their way of thinking about the universe,
about the world, this belief in innocence, is not possible for me.
For me, we belong more to the world of animals. We are animals, we
are just the animals who won. Yet we live in a highly anthropomorphic
world—we believe we live in a human world in which there is a part for
animals, for plants, for stones. This is not the truth.

INTERVIEWER

So you mean, your own philosophy would be pure materialism?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Oh no, Myshkin is also real. Sorry.

INTERVIEWER

No, tell me more.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Franz Kafka is a person. He’s Franz Kafka, with his life story, with
his books. But K. is there, in a heavenly space in the universe, and
perhaps some characters from my novels live there, too. For example,
Irimiás and the doctor from Satantango or Mr. Eszter and Valuska from Melancholy or, from my new novel, the Baron. They are absolute—they live. They exist in the eternal place.
Can you argue that Myshkin is only fictional? Of course. But it’s not
the truth. Myshkin may have entered reality through someone else,
through Dostoyevsky, but now, for us, he is a real person. Every
character in so-called eternal fiction came through ordinary people.
This is a secret process, but I’m entirely sure that it’s true. For
example, a few years after I had written Satantango, I was in a bar, and somebody tapped my shoulder. It was Halics from Satantango. Really! I’m not joking! That’s why I’ve become more careful about what I write. For example, the original text of War and War
was quite different from the version I published. The first hundred
pages originally dealt with Korin’s self-destruction, but I was afraid
that I would meet him in that condition later on and wouldn’t be able to
help him. I was afraid of the possibility that he might never leave his
small town. That’s why I chose to get him out of there—with his wish to
go just once, at the end of his life, to the center of the world. I
hadn’t decided that this would be New York, but that was how I freed
myself of the story where he lived forever in this provincial place.

INTERVIEWER

I’m just thinking about what you said about humans living in an
anthropomorphic world. It sometimes occurs to me that novels are so
blithely anthropocentric. Where are the octopi? Where are the algae? One
of the things I love about your novels is that they’re trying not to be
so, as it were, provincially human. But it also feels like an oxymoron. What else could they be?

KRASZNAHORKAI

This is very important. The frame of the novel may be too
anthropocentric. Which is why the problem of the narrator is the first
problem, and it remains that way forever. How can you remove the
narrator from a novel? In my most recent novel, on every page there are
just people talking to each other—and that’s one way to avoid the
narrator, but this is just a technique. Because I agree with you—the
frame of the novel and of the world is anthropocentric. But if I have to
choose between the universe without a frame and mankind with a frame, I
would choose mankind.
We don’t have any idea what the universe is. Wise people have always
told us that this is proof you shouldn’t think, because thinking leads
you nowhere. You just build over this huge construction of
misunderstanding, which is culture. The history of culture is the
history of the misunderstandings of great thinkers. So we always have to
go back to zero and begin differently. And maybe in that way you have a
chance not to understand but at least not to have further
misunderstandings. Because this is the other side of this question—Am I
really so brave to cancel all human culture? To stop admiring the beauty
in human production? It’s very difficult to say no.

INTERVIEWER

You still write novels, though.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, but maybe that’s a mistake. I respect our culture. I respect
high ­human articulation in every form. But the root of this culture is
false. And if we do nothing, everything continues anyway. And maybe this
is the most ­important thing. Everything must go on without any thinking about essences, about what it is, and other such questions.

INTERVIEWER

As if writing, and every art form, should become a ritual without a theology?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Maybe it’s possible to think of writing as a ritual to be
performed—­something repeated, word after word, sentence after sentence.
Not in the sense of the classic avant-garde at the beginning of the
twentieth century, like Dada, say, which led great artists nowhere
because they neglected content and that was, poor geniuses, their
mistake. But if you think of writing as a ritual you perform, and if you
are able to see yourself at the same time, that you are down there on
Earth and you write word after word after word . . . and then you have a
book. You stop. You close the book. And you open another one, with
empty pages. And you write again, write again, write again. Word after
word. Sentence after sentence. Close the book. The next one . . . This
is a ritual. Maybe it’s not how you think of your writing, but maybe it
is what you do.
But this is the point at which we should remember our readers.
Because readers need, I hope, our writings. And in this small
space—where we write books, novels, poems—there is also a place for our
readers. This sympathy, this feeling is very important—finding a common
essence between writers, who create form, and readers, who need what we
do. This also makes some sense of this small space, which from the
higher level we see is absolute nonsense. So maybe the universe is full
of small spaces—each with their own time, essence, characters, creation,
events, and so on. Different ideas of time for different spaces. Just
as we are here, in the universe, inside our small human space.

INTERVIEWER

How did you arrive at your style—these grand, vast sentences?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Finding a style was never difficult for me because I never looked for
it. I lived a secluded life. I always had friends, but just one at a
time. And with each friend, I had a relationship in which we spoke to
each other only in monologues. One day, one night, I spoke. The next day
or night, he would speak. But the dialogue was different each time
because we wanted to say something very ­important to the other person,
and if you want to say something very ­important, and if you want to
convince your partner that this is very important, you don’t need full
stops or periods but breaths and rhythm—rhythm and tempo and melody. It
isn’t a conscious choice. This kind of rhythm, melody, and sentence
structure came rather from the wish to convince another person.

INTERVIEWER

It was never literary? Never related to other styles, like Proust’s or Beckett’s?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Maybe when I was a teenager, but that was more an imitation of their
lives, not their language, not their styles. I have a special
relationship to Kafka because I started reading him very early, so early
that I couldn’t understand what, say, The Castle was about. I
was too young. I had an older brother, and I wanted to be like him, so I
stole his books and read them. That’s why Kafka was my first writer—a
writer I couldn’t understand, but also one I wondered about as a person.
One of my favorite books when I was twelve or thirteen was Conversations with Kafka,by Gustav Janouch. With this book, I had a special channel to Kafka.
And maybe that’s why I studied law—to be like Kafka. My father was a
little surprised. He wanted me to go to the law faculty but was sure I
would say no because I was interested only in art—in literature, music,
paintings, philosophy, everything except law. But I said okay partly, I
think, because I wanted to deal with criminal psychology. At that time,
the early seventies, it was a forbidden science in Hungary. It was
Western and therefore suspect. But the main reason was, I think, Kafka.
Of course, after three weeks I couldn’t bear the atmosphere, and I
left—not just the law faculty but the city itself.

INTERVIEWER

Where was this?

KRASZNAHORKAI

A town called Szeged. Because of the military-service system it
wasn’t easy to leave. If I left, I had to go back into military service.
Normally, military service was two years, but if you graduated, you
only had to do one year. However, if you left university early, you had
to go back for the second year. So I became a deferred student and lived
for a while in Budapest, studying religion and philology. I continued
my old Greek and Latin studies, but the exams were difficult because I
wasn’t actually at university. Then finally, after four years, I had
children. And with children, the military-service problem was solved,
because if you had two children, you were free of this terrible
obligation.
Military service, for me, was almost a death. In the whole year, I
never got permission to leave the camp. I wasn’t a hero or a pacifist,
but if you were at a watch post, you had to stay there with a gun and do
nothing. Sometimes an officer came to observe me, and if I was reading
Kafka, I couldn’t stop because Kafka was more interesting than an
idiotic officer, so I always received punishments in the camp prison.
That wasn’t so terrible, but it also meant I couldn’t get permission to
leave the camp. And that was terrible—to be there, always.
The beginning of my service was the most difficult. When I went in on
the night train, with other new military soldiers, I was completely
destroyed. I couldn’t speak with anybody. Everybody wanted to make
jokes, but me, no. I discovered another guy, a young guy, who was in the
same state, so we spoke a little bit. We spoke about how, if we had the
chance, we’d visit each other. And after about a week, when I got a
little bit of free time, I went to the building where he worked and
asked, Where can I find this guy? And somebody said, Third floor. At the
third floor, I asked again, Where can I find this guy? And somebody
said he was in the munitions store because of a punishment. He was
cleaning the guns, and as I opened the door, he shot himself through the
mouth. At exactly the same moment. I opened the door and my friend shot
himself. I was a child. We were children. We were hardly eighteen years
old.
What was your question?

INTERVIEWER

I’m just trying to sort out a rough chronology. You were born in
Gyula, then followed your military service, your studies in Szeged, your
Wanderjahre, and the publication of Satantango. You came to Berlin in 1987 and were back in Hungary in 1989.

KRASZNAHORKAI

And always back and back to Germany.
In the early nineties, I started War and War. Originally, I
wanted to know what the border meant for the Roman Empire. I went, for
instance, to Denmark, to Great Britain, to France, to Italy, to Spain,
to Crete—trying to find ruins, traces of military defenses. I was always
on the road. It wasn’t until 1996, I think, that I really started to
write down War and War, while in New York, in Allen Ginsberg’s flat.

INTERVIEWER

How did you meet Ginsberg?

KRASZNAHORKAI

We had a mutual friend. And Allen was a very friendly guy. In his
apartment, the door and its lock were completely unnecessary. People
came and went, came and went. It was fantastic to be there but also very
disturbing to be part of Ginsberg’s circle. During the day, I could
work, and at night, which was when Allen really came alive, I could take
part in the parties and conversation and music making. I never told
them I came from Gyula, but I could never forget it, you know? That I
was actually the same provincial boy, just without any hair, and with
some teeth missing, who was in shock when he sat in the kitchen beside
Allen and in came these musicians, poets, painters—immortal people.

INTERVIEWER

I remember you once talking about the sense of timelessness you
always feel and relating it to growing up under the Soviet empire, which
had done away with history.

KRASZNAHORKAI

It was a timeless society because they wanted you to think that
things would never change. Always the same gray sky and colorless trees
and parks and streets and buildings and cities and towns, and the
terrible drinks in the bars and the poverty and the things you were
forbidden to say out loud. You were living in an eternity. It was very
depressing. My generation was the first that not only didn’t believe in
communist theory or Marxism but found it ridiculous, embarrassing. When I
lived through the end of this political system, it was a wonder. I’ll
never forget the taste of political freedom. That’s why I now have
German citizenship, because for me the European Union means, above all,
political freedom against the aggressive stupidity which is now the god
of Eastern Europe.
I came from a bourgeois world, where communist theory never played
any role. We were social democrats, my family. My father was a lawyer,
and he helped poor people. That was the reality of my life—that two or
three evenings a week poor people came to us, and my father helped them
for no fee. And the next day, early in the morning, they came and left
something outside our door—two chickens, I don’t know what.

INTERVIEWER

And your parents were Jewish, yes?

KRASZNAHORKAI

My father had Jewish roots. But he only told us this secret when I
was about eleven. Before that, I had no idea. In the socialist era, it
was forbidden to mention it. Well, I am half Jewish, but if things carry
on in Hungary as they seem likely to do, I’ll soon be entirely Jewish.

INTERVIEWER

How did your father survive the war?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Our original name was Korin, a Jewish name. With this name, he would
never have survived. My grandfather was very wise, and he changed our
name to Krasznahorkai. Krasznahorkai was an irredentist name. After the
First World War, Hungary lost two-thirds of its territory, and the main
line of politics after the war, of the conservative nationalist
government, was to restore these lost territories. There was a very
famous song, an unbearably sentimental song, about the Krasznahorka
Castle. After the war, it became part of Czechoslovakia. The essence of
the song is that the Krasznahorka Castle is very sad and dark and
everything is hopeless. Maybe that’s why my grandfather chose it. I
don’t know. Nobody knows, because he was a very silent man. This was in
1931, before the first Hungarian Jewish laws.

INTERVIEWER

Let’s talk about your writing more. One thing that intrigues me is
that you seem very clear that you’ve only written four novels.

KRASZNAHORKAI

There is Satantango, The Melancholy of Resistance, War and War, Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming.

INTERVIEWER

Where would you place, say, a text like Animalinside?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Animalinside is a novel, though not in the strict sense. But
whether something is a novel or a short story doesn’t depend on the
number of pages. I wrote some stories at the beginning of my career, in Relations of Grace (1986).
These stories work in a very small space, in a very confined time span,
in the middle of which is a single character. A novel contains a huge
construction, like a bridge, an arch, from the beginning through to the
end. In the case of a story, there is no need for an arch. Instead, a
story is a black box, in which no one knows what happened.

INTERVIEWER

And so what’s the new novel, Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming, about? Is it a kind of odyssey?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes. For this main character, this is a homecoming at the end of his
life. He is a very old man who lives in Buenos Aires. He’s a very
sensitive, very tall man, like Gyula Krúdy. But very unlucky—he always
makes mistakes.

INTERVIEWER

So he’s your Myshkin, your defenseless character?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, like Estike. Because this novel is my summary, actually, of all
my ­novels—you can find a lot of parallels with other characters, other
stories. I make jokes about the word satantango and so on. This is my finest novel, I think.

INTERVIEWER

Your finest?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Funniest. The funniest book. It isn’t full of apocalyptic messages. Instead, this is the apocalypse. It’s already come.

INTERVIEWER

But then, I feel, in all of your books, that the apocalypse has
already, secretly come. I wonder if there are two types of novelists.
Those who see each novel as a separate object, and those who think
they’ve written one novel, that all of their novels fit together.

KRASZNAHORKAI

I’ve said a thousand times that I always wanted to write just one
book. I wasn’t satisfied with the first, and that’s why I wrote the
second. I wasn’t satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so
on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story. With this novel I can prove that I really wrote just one book in my life. This is the book—Satantango, Melancholy, War and War, and Baron. This is my one book.

INTERVIEWER

Do you ever long to write something completely outside the terms of these fictions?

KRASZNAHORKAI

No. It doesn’t bother me if Johann Sebastian Bach stays the same his whole life.

INTERVIEWER

You often return to Bach—and other Baroque composers, like Rameau. What’s the importance of the Baroque to you?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Bach’s music is structurally complicated because of the harmony,
which is why I can’t bear Romantic music. After the late Baroque, music
became more and more vulgar, and the peak of this vulgarity was in the
time of the Romantics. There are some exceptional composers, like
Stravinsky or Shostakovich or Bartók or Kurtág, whom I love very much,
but I think of them always as exceptions. For me, music history is a
descent. And after two thousand years, this is also happening in
literature. But it’s very difficult to analyze this process of
vulgarization. The terrible revolution that was always going to happen
in modern societies has in fact happened. Not that mass culture has won,
but money. Occasionally a very high-level literary work happens to say
something on the midrange level and reaches more readers—and maybe this
is the fate of a lot of contemporary writers.

INTERVIEWER

What about your novels?

KRASZNAHORKAI

No, my novels absolutely don’t work on the middle level because I
don’t ever compromise. Writing, for me, is a totally private act. I’m ashamed
to speak about my literature—it’s the same as if you were to ask me
about my most private secrets. I was never really part of literary life
because I couldn’t ­accept being a writer in a social sense. No one can
speak about literature with me—except you and a few other people. I’m
not happy if I have to speak about literature, especially my literature. Literature is very private.
When I write a book, the book is ready in my head. Ever since I was
young, I worked like that. In my childhood, my memory was quite
abnormal. I had a photographic memory. And so I would find the exact
form, a sentence, some sentences, in my head, and when I was ready, I
wrote it down.

INTERVIEWER

You don’t revise?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I work almost every minute, like a mill that keeps on turning. If I’m
sick, I can’t. And if I were drunk, I couldn’t. But with these
exceptions, I work and work, because a sentence starts and next to that
sentence a hundred thousand other sentences, like very fine threads from
a spider. And one of them is somehow a little bit more important than
every other, and I extract it, enough so that I can work with the
sentence, correct it. And that’s why, although there are wonderful
translations of my books, I wish you could read them in the original,
because when I’m working, the first thing I do with a sentence in my
head is to make the rhythmic element perfect. When I work, I use the
same mechanism that is common to music composition and literary
composition. Music and literature and visual art have a common
root—structures of rhythm and tempo—and I work from this root. The
content is absolutely different in the case of music and in the case of
novels. But the essence, for me, is really similar.

INTERVIEWER

You were a kind of jazz prodigy, no? And played in jazz bands when you were young?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I was a professional musician from fourteen until I turned eighteen.

INTERVIEWER

And Thelonious Monk was your great hero as a pianist. Why Monk?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I often ask myself the same question. Looking back, it’s difficult to
explain why our taste in music under the Soviet system was so perfect.
I’m trying not to sound vain. I played not just in a jazz group but also
in a rock group, regularly. Our concerts were parties for working-class
people. I recently found a piece of paper with titles of songs we
played, and we had absolutely the best taste. Not my taste, but our
generation’s taste. At that time, the sources of jazz or rock music were
very small. There were two radio stations—the Radio Free Europe, from
Munich, and Radio Luxembourg. Our recordings were very bad quality,
since we recorded directly from the radio—in secret, of course, because
it was forbidden. I had an acquaintance, a doctor in a hospital in
Gyula, who had a huge LP collection, and he allowed me to make
recordings from his collection. But how I chose the best music, I don’t
know. We played Cream, Them, Blind Faith, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin,
Dusty Springfield. The most conventional group was the Kinks. What
else? Troggs, Animals, Eric Burdon. The Rolling Stones, of course. No
Beatles. I don’t know why, but no Beatles. And a lot of blues.
In the jazz trio, I played with a drummer who was fifty and a bass
player who was also maybe fifty. I was fourteen. We played everyone from
Erroll Garner to Thelonious Monk. And I don’t have an explanation for
why Monk was my favorite. Because I’m an old man now and I would still
say the same thing.

INTERVIEWER

And you sang, too?

KRASZNAHORKAI

In the rock group, yes. I had a very high voice, like a counter
tenor. So I only sang songs by women—Dusty Springfield and Aretha
Franklin.

INTERVIEWER

What about the art scene? Were you listening to Bowie, the Velvet Underground?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I joined the Bowie fan club late, after I became friends with Béla
Tarr. Béla lived in a wonderful small apartment in the middle of
Budapest. He walked around in one room the whole day, always with music.
David Bowie, Lou Reed, Nico . . .

INTERVIEWER

You began working with Tarr on the film Damnation shortly after publishing Satantango, in 1985—is that right? And then went on to make two adaptations of your novels, Satantango, in 1994, and Werckmeister Harmonies, which is a version of The Melancholy of Resistance, in 2000.

KRASZNAHORKAI

At the beginning, we made Damnation because, under the Communists, we were forbidden from making Satantango. This whole story began in 1985, after that novel was published. Béla, his wife, Ágnes, and I—we wanted to make a film of Satantango,
but Béla was a hated man in the Hungarian film world. He went to one
film company and another. Finally somebody told us that it was forbidden
to do Satantango. And I told Béla, Okay, you go home, I go
home, it’s over. Maybe two weeks later, Ágnes came to me and begged me
to write a new script, because otherwise Béla would commit suicide. I
know him, she said. He will commit suicide if he can’t make a film with
you. Of course, that was a trap, a story to make me work with him.

INTERVIEWER

Is Tarr the only director you’ve worked with?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I only ever worked with Béla. With him, it was more than a
collaboration. I gave everything to him, and he took away the whole. We
always worked together after I wrote the scripts, but they were his
movies. Cinema is an art without justice. If you are a writer and a
film director wants to adapt your work, you should accept that he is the
director. This movie will be his. Otherwise, you’re making a mistake.
My scripts were always literary works. I used the form, I used
dialogue, but when I wrote about a main character, “He thinks of a world
without God,” Béla said, This isn’t a script. How can I show this?
That’s why I was a little afraid during those projects. For example,
when Estike goes up to heaven. Béla asked, How can I make a shot of
that? In the end, the only possibility was to place the camera maybe
eighty centimeters in front of Irimiás’s face. And if, in the movie, we
could see on his face what happened to Estike, then okay, we win. If
not, it’s a failure. Whereas, I can write it in a book and it’s
interesting and has a philosophical background. What is reality? Is
Estike’s ghost real? For the camera, no.

INTERVIEWER

But for language, yes.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Exactly. And it means that if you have a question about the universe,
you always have a few possibilities—in particular through language. The
power of the word is, for me, the only way to get closer to this hidden
reality. Everyone is a fictional person and, at the same time, a real
person. I belong to the fictive world and to the real world—I’m there in
both empires. You too. And everyone in this restaurant. And also this
object and everything we can perceive and also things we can’t perceive,
because we know that with our five senses, some part of reality is
imperceptible. I’m not being esoteric. Reality is so important to me
that I always want to be aware of every possibility.

INTERVIEWER

I wonder if this is why translation feels so uncanny. How can the reality invented by the Hungarian version of Satantango or BaronWenckheim
be the same as the reality invented by English or French words? There
isn’t an equivalent problem for other art forms. Bach makes a cantata
and it’s an ­attempt, for him, to express some kind of transcendent
ideal—

KRASZNAHORKAI

No, no. Bach is just a musician. When he started his career and began
to make his own cantatas, he dealt only with musical
questions—structure, the fugue form, the prelude, the falsobordone.
We listen to his music and we have a picture of Bach as a holy man,
always looking to heaven. But in fact, all geniuses are only interested
in the physical, in technique. If you look at Thuringia, where Bach was
from, Thuringia was full of Bachs—musicians, generation after
generation. Bach was really a synonym for a good musician.
When I was in Japan, I went to a workshop where Buddha sculptures
were being restored by specialists. They were incredible workers,
geniuses, true artists, but they were entirely absorbed in the technical
question—How can I repair this broken sculpture? Then, when the
restored Buddha was ­returned to his location, he was now sacred, and
someone could pray to him. You can say this is a contradiction, but
there was no contradiction for them. The sculptor and the restorer are
the same thing. And when someone is a true poet, it means they know that
the word has power, and they can use words. If you have that ability,
you only need to deal with technical questions.

INTERVIEWER

So you mean, the only true artistic questions are questions of technique?

KRASZNAHORKAI

An artist has only one task—to continue a ritual. And ritual is a pure technique.

INTERVIEWER

I feel that we should single out one particular work for more technical analysis . . .

KRASZNAHORKAI

I think this relates to another question. If we talk about Homer or
Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky or Stendhal or Kafka, they are all in this
heavenly empire. And once someone crosses this border, it’s forbidden to
say, The Idiot is wonderful, but “White Nights” isn’t so good.
Or Thelonious Monk—we are not allowed to say that his playing isn’t so
good in one place, or in another is too dissonant. These are holy
people! We shouldn’t speak about details but about the wholeness of the
work or of the person. If you proved once, just once, with a work that
you are a genius, after that, in my eyes, you are free. You can make
shit. You will still remain absolutely the same holy person, and that
shit is sacred shit, because having crossed this border, this person is
invulnerable.
I am convinced that Franz Kafka is a fact in an empire that I, from a
distance, can only wonder at. I feel joy that this empire exists and
that figures such as Dante and Goethe and Beckett and Homer existed, and
exist now, for us. I’m sure that all thoughts about these figures,
these holy figures, have something in common. My picture of Kafka won’t
be so different from your picture of Kafka.
Does that answer your question?

INTERVIEWER

Well, only in that it’s a refusal to answer my question! Can I put it
differently? What you’re saying about Bach seems related to your idea
that whatever meaning a work possesses will be reached through pure
concentration on technique. You once wrote, “The world, should it exist,
has to be in the details.” And maybe the work, should it exist, has to
be in the details as well—as if they’re different aspects of the same
thing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

For me, details are the most important, yes. The smallest details are
a question of life and death. A mistake in a sentence kills me. That’s
why I can’t bear to read my books, because it’s almost impossible to
write a book, in three hundred ­pages, without one rhythmic mistake. And
maybe this isn’t a question of perfection but a desire to care about
the smallest details, because there’s no difference in importance
between the smallest details and the whole. What’s the difference
between one drop of the ocean, and the ocean as a whole? Nothing.
Nothing.

INTERVIEWER

Is it also related to what you were saying before—that you almost
have the whole book in your mind before you begin the actual process of
writing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, but there is something else. Who writes the books? If you have a
feeling that you can decide something in the middle of the work, then
you are not in the work—you are outside it. If you have the feeling that
you are writing the book, you are outside the work itself.

INTERVIEWER

Are there then implications for the interpretation of the work, for literary criticism? If I were to ask about the meaning of The Melancholy of Resistance, is that a stupid question?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Stupid? No. It depends on who is asking. Speaking with you is a
different kind of conversation. I honor what you do. It’s not an
accident that we are sitting here, because normally I don’t sit down two
or three times, for two or three days, with somebody. And of course, my
assumption is that you also have your own interest in the answer to
your question—this question about meaning. It always comes back to the
problem of a whole and details, of how details become a whole.

INTERVIEWER

Are you saying that the two things—the details and the whole—are so
­interdependent that you can’t think of one without thinking of the
other? So that, in a way, a work is a third thing, neither the details
nor the whole?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Buddha never allowed a person to speak about wholeness because it was
an abstraction—because wholeness lacks reality. We have to be very
careful using the word wholeness. For instance, we believe that the world, the universe,
is infinite. This is a fiasco, because if the world really were infinite, then this object [pointing to a glass of tea] couldn’t exist.

INTERVIEWER

Why not?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Because everything you can experience in existence is finite. In this
glass, there are finite small parts, subatomic elements, and so on.
Intangible to us but not infinite.

INTERVIEWER

There’s the moment at the end of Satantango where we realize
that the novel is on a loop—that the last lines are also the novel’s
first lines, as written by one of its characters. I think it’s the only
metafictional moment in your ­novels, the only absolute regression. Was
it obvious to you from the beginning that the book would have that
circular structure?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Not at all. When I work, I begin from the beginning, and I never know more than my characters. At the beginning of Satantango,
I had no idea that at the end, this whole construction, like a musical
form, would come back and begin again from the beginning—but on another
level, because when you read this book again, you read it with the
knowledge that it was written by somebody who is a character in the
book. No, I never worked with that conception.

INTERVIEWER

Because it makes the novel infinite.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. Only the uncountable finite can exist.

INTERVIEWER

What I mean is, theoretically, it’s capable of being read infinitely, or endlessly, in a kind of circle.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Do you remember what Buddha told us about the circle?

INTERVIEWER

No.

KRASZNAHORKAI

If you follow a circle, after a while you will understand that a
circle doesn’t exist. It’s simply a point that doesn’t exist. There is a
big difference between the infinite and the uncountable finite. After
all, what do you think happens when the Sufi dancer dissolves into
nothing?

INTERVIEWER

But then, to finish with this question of endings. You said that Baron Wenckheim would be your last novel. But I know you’re still writing. Does that mean that what you’re writing now isn’t a novel?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Small things, not a big construction. I’ve already written three small books since the last novel. The first, The Manhattan Project (2017),
is a prologue to the second work, my New York book. A provisional title
could be something like “Spadework for a Palace.” And I also finished a
book I’ve wanted to write from the very beginning, because I’ve adored
Homer ever since my youth. I made a trip last autumn to Dalmatia, on the
Adriatic Coast. This journey led me to an island in the Adriatic, and
one myth of the Odyssey suddenly came back, and I wrote a book about it. A small book, like a novella.

Δευτέρα, 16 Απριλίου 2018

Around the World in 50 Years

Convulsed
in laughter a few pages into Andrew Sean Greer’s fifth novel, “Less,” I
wondered with regret why I wasn’t familiar with this author. My bad.
His admirers have included John Updike, Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers and
John Irving. “Less” is the funniest, smartest and most humane novel I’ve
read since Tom Rachman’s 2010 debut, “The Imperfectionists.”

The
setup: Nothing is going well for Arthur Less. He’s about to turn 50.
The mysterious narrator tells us that Arthur is “the first homosexual
ever to grow old. That is, at least, how he feels at times like these.”
Arthur is a novelist, and that’s not going well, either. His first book,
now distant in the rearview mirror, was a “moderate success.” A
big-name critic reviewed it in these very pages. “But every author can
taste the poison another has slipped into the punch,” and the critic
ended by calling Arthur “a magniloquent spoony.” Staring at this odd
phrase, Arthur asked his lover at the time, a distinguished older poet,
“What the hell was a spoony?” “‘Arthur,’ Robert said, holding his hand,
‘he’s just calling you a faggot.’”

Photo

Andrew Sean GreerCredit
Kaliel Roberts

Years
later, Arthur is nominated for a prize he didn’t even know existed: the
“Wilde and Stein Literary Laurels.” He thinks his agent has told him,
“Wildenstein.” Arthur replies that he’s not Jewish. The agent coughs and
says, “I believe it is something gay.” “‘How did they even know I was
gay?’ He asked this from his front porch, wearing a kimono.”

Now,
on the cusp of the dreaded 50th birthday, Arthur finds himself in a
sort of authorial Sargasso Sea, “too old to be fresh and too young to be
rediscovered, one who never sits next to anyone on a plane who has
heard of his books,” reduced to accepting gigs like interviewing a
mega-best-selling author named H.H.H. Mandern, who has made zillions
writing “space operettas” of “tin-ear language and laughable stock
characters.” Arthur knows that the event sponsor has made the
calculation: “What literary writer would agree to prepare for an
interview and yet not be paid? It had to be someone terribly desperate.
How many other writers of his acquaintance said ‘no chance’? How far
down the list did they go before someone said: ‘What about Arthur
Less?’”

It
has come, finally, to this. But wait — the crowning humiliation of “our
gay Job” is that his boyfriend, having dumped him, is now getting
married.

As
Hunter S. Thompson used to say, “When the going gets weird, the weird
turn pro.” Rather than submit to the ultimate humiliation of attending
the wedding, or even of finding himself in the same time zone
(nonspoiler alert: the San Francisco Bay Area), Arthur decides to accept
a series of invitations to literary events that most self-respecting
authors would probably toss into the wastebasket.

Off
he goes, around the world, wearing his treasured blue suit,
hand-tailored years ago in “humid, moped-plagued” Ho Chi Minh City. His
itinerary will take him to New York, Paris, Berlin, Morocco, southern
India and Kyoto. His current project is a novel titled “Swift,” about
which the lover who has spurned him sniffed censoriously, “All you do is
write gay ‘Ulysses.’”

Maybe.
But “Ulysses” was never this much fun. Arthur’s wanderings as he makes
his way from disaster to disaster are hilariously, brilliantly
harrowing. But laughter is only a part of the joy of reading this book.
Greer writes sentences of arresting lyricism and beauty. His metaphors
come at you like fireflies — or like the “pygmy hummingbird moths” that
delight Arthur amid his latest gloom, at a golf resort he fears he has
visited accidentally (in place of a vacationing Austrian doctor in red
shorts and suspenders).

Photo

Delights
of language abound. On a turbulent night flight into Mexico City, “the
plane convulses in the moonlight, like a man turning into a werewolf.”
And in another fraught venue, “an eel of panic wriggles through him as
he searches the room for exits, but life has no exits.” Even Arthur’s
random observations are entertaining. Why, he bitterly wonders, do
today’s young gay men insist on marrying? “Was this why we all threw
stones at the police, for weddings?” And as for quaaludes, “is there any
more perfect spelling than with that lazy superfluous vowel?”

In
France, Arthur is taken to a remote area on the German border where his
schedule consists of “visiting a school during the day and a library at
night, with sometimes a monastery in between. … Later: He read aloud to
coal miners, who listened thoughtfully. What on earth was everyone
thinking? Bringing a midlist homosexual to read to French miners?”

At
a literary festival in Italy, where he’s in the running for yet another
award he’s never heard of, Arthur recalls being ambushed on stage once,
excoriated as an “assimilationist” gay writer. His crime? In Arthur’s
debut novel, the gay protagonist returns in the end to his (female)
wife. Arthur is not a gay enough writer, it appears.

In
Piemonte, where the Italian festival convenes, the big prize jury turns
out to consist of a dozen teenagers. Again, Arthur has a bad feeling.
“How has it come to this? What god has enough free time to arrange this
very special humiliation, to fly a minor novelist across the world so
that he can feel, in some seventh sense, the minusculitude of his own
worth? Decided by high school students, in fact.”

Yet what bubbles up amid all these disasters isn’t self-pity but Arthur’s warm humanity. Pace E. M. Forster’s famous dictum, Arthur connects, especially with young people.

The
creative writing seminar he gives in Berlin is so inventive and
engaging that it could be used as a template at any college, as a model
of how to get kids to fall in love with literature. He has them cut up a
paragraph of “Lolita” and reassemble the text any way they want. “He
gives them a page of Joyce and a bottle of Wite-Out — and Molly Bloom
merely says ‘Yes.’ A game to write a persuasive opening sentence for a
book they have never read … leads to a chilling start to Woolf’s ‘The
Waves’: I was too far out in the ocean to hear the lifeguard shouting, ‘Shark! Shark!’”
His students “learn to love language again, something that has faded
like sex in a long marriage. Because of this, they learn to love their
teacher.”

By
the time Arthur reaches Japan, the reader isn’t just rooting for him
but wants to give the poor guy a hug. And by now, good things are
starting to happen. A crisis prompts a phone call to the former
lover/mentor, the older poet, who informs Arthur that turning 50 “isn’t
all bad. It means now people will think you were always a grown-up.
They’ll take you seriously. They don’t know that you once spent an
entire dinner party babbling about Nepal when you meant Tibet.” “I can’t
believe you brought that up again,” Arthur replies.

Like Arthur, Andrew Sean Greer’s “Less” is excellent company. It’s no less than bedazzling, bewitching and be-wonderful.